Spymaster

By Margaret Weis and Robert Krammes

The start of a swashbuckling adventure from New York Times bestselling author Margaret Weis and Robert Krammes

Captain Kate Fitzmaurice was born to sail. She has made a life of her own as a privateer and smuggler. Hired by the notorious Henry Wallace, spymaster for the queen of Freya, to find a young man who claims to be the true heir to the Freyan, she begins to believe that her ship has finally come in.

But no fair wind lasts forever. Soon Kate’s checkered past will catch up to her. It will take more than just quick wits and her considerable luck if she hopes to bring herself—and her crew—through intact.

"A solid addition to a new series, with a cliffhanger ending promising more intrigue and adventure in the next installment."--Booklist

At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Mar 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781466877955

Margaret Weis

Margaret Weis is a New York Times bestselling author. Her Dragonlance® series has sold over twenty million copies worldwide, and the first book in thatseries, Dragons of Autumn Twilight, is being made into an animated film by Paramount Pictures. Warrior Angel is her first venture into romance, and it has been an exciting one. She has particularly enjoyed writing with her daughter, Lizz Weis, a former novel editor.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Kate sat on the deck, her back against the lift tank, playing at a game of knucklebones and watching her father meet with the revenue agent, who had come aboard to inspect the ship for contraband. The ship’s crew, old hands at their business, went about their duties as normal—lowering the sails, deflating the balloons, making ready to dock the ship—while those who had no work leaned over the railing to barter with Trundlers offering to sell their potent liquor, Calvados.

Hey, little boy, want to be a man tonight? a shrill voice called out.

You talking to me? Kate demanded, turning to see a gaily colored barge filled with enterprising whores nudge alongside the ship. The woman stood up in the barge and lifted her skirt to display her wares.

Come to the Perky Parrot, little boy, she said. I’ll give you a closer look.

Did you say the Poxy Parrot? Kate shouted back.

The crew roared and even the revenue agent laughed, as the offended whores sailed off.

You tell ’em, Li’l Captain, added one of the sailors, who were regarding her with the fond pride of parents whose child has done something clever.

Kate grinned and went back to her game, surreptitiously watching her father and the revenue agent. She didn’t have to concentrate on the game; she was an expert at knucklebones, having quick reflexes and deft hands. The crew had stopped playing with her for money when she was ten. This meant she could keep an eye on her father, ready to spring into action if something should go wrong.

Her father and the agent shook hands and then exchanged pleasantries. Watching closely, Kate saw that after the handshake, the agent slid his hand into his pocket, no doubt depositing the five silver rosun coins given to him to keep his inspection brief.

The ship, an older design, had two masts and a wide beam made for sailing the open Breath. The short wings, swept back along the length of the hull, ended with a large airscrew on either side. A cargo hold ran the full length of the ship, with a smaller hold under an old-style sterncastle.

The revenue agent was sweating in his blue uniform beneath the midday sun and seemed glad to make quick work of the inspection so that he could retire to his cool office on shore. He smiled at Kate, who jumped to her feet and knuckled her forehead. Dressed in loose-fitting trousers and shirt, her curly sun-bleached blond hair cut short and her skin burned brown, Kate was just another ship’s boy, and she knew how to act the part.

Clever lad, said the agent.

Thankee, sir, said Kate.

The agent walked on and Kate cast a sly glance at Olaf, ship’s crafter and mechanic, who had been loitering nearby, ready with his magic in case the revenue agent had taken it into his head to ignore the bribe and inspect the lift tank. Olaf winked at her and nodded. All was well.

The revenue agent glanced down into the hold, saw a great many barrels marked tar, noted that they were on the manifest, and gave Captain Fitzmaurice permission to enter the harbor. The agent departed, jingling coins in his pocket.

The Barwich Rose, named for Kate’s late mother, sailed into the Rosian harbor city of Westfirth, joining the traffic in the busy harbor. Kate’s father celebrated by buying a bottle of Calvados from one of the Trundlers. Walking over to Kate, he clapped her on the shoulder.

I heard you give the Perky Parrot a new name, he said, grinning. The Poxy Parrot! Agent Rouchard was most amused.

Morgan reached out to cup her face with his hand, turning it to the sun slanting through the mists of the Breath.

Damn, but you are like your mother, Kate. Poxy Parrot! Morgan gave a rueful grin. A girl your age shouldn’t talk of such things or even know about them. Your mother would skin us both if she were alive. Damn if I know what to do about you, though.

He took off his hat and ran his sleeve across his forehead while he regarded Kate with a look of mingled regret, fondness, and perplexity.

I suppose you could go to school back in Freya, he said vaguely. You’re a fair crafter. The Crown would pay for your schooling…

Kate felt a chill. Her father had talked of sending her off to school ever since her mother died. So far, he hadn’t carried through on his threat, but she noticed he was starting to bring it up more often now that she was growing older. He had not known what to do with his daughter when she was six; he was completely flummoxed over what to do with her now that she was developing into a young woman.

Born to a family of merchant seamen who had used their influence to gain him an officer’s commission in the Royal Navy, Captain Morgan Fitzmaurice had lost his commission and barely escaped court-martial when it was suspected, though never proved, that he was using naval ships to transport contraband.

A handsome man with a ready smile and glib tongue, Morgan had one goal in life, and that was to make as much money as he could, with as little effort as possible. A fondness for baccarat always seemed to prevent him from achieving that goal, but he was optimistic and never failed to believe that the next voyage would make his fortune. Kate had adored her father when she was little, and she had tried hard to keep on adoring him even after she was old enough to know better.

She knew how to disarm him, however. She grabbed a section of silk from a balloon that was being mended, wrapped it around her slim body, and then went mincing about the deck.

My dear sweet papa wants to send me to school to learn to be a fine lady, Kate shrilled, talking through her nose. I’m to be presented to the queen.

Her clumsy curtsy drew hoots of laughter from the crew. Morgan joined in, and Kate dropped the balloon to run to him and throw her arms around him.

I don’t need school, she said persuasively. Mama taught me to read and write and cipher. I’m better at keeping the account books than you are. I can do everything there is to be done around the ship, including taking the helm. I’m as good a crafter as Olaf—

You are not! Olaf roared, grinning.

Well, almost, Kate amended. I know how to use a sextant, I can read navigation charts. I know the weather signs, when there’s going to be a storm and when it’s going to be fine for sailing. And, most important, I’m your luck, Father.

She is that, Cap’n! called a member of the crew. Others said Aye to that.

She brings us fair winds and a prosperous voyage, said another.

And revenue agents who take bribes! said a third.

Remember when I was sick with the measles and you had to leave me with the nuns at Saint Agnes and sail on without me. You remember what happened?

Many in the crew dourly shook their heads.

Only time we was ever boarded, said one.

Had to dump the cargo, said another.

Kate gave her father a kiss on his cheek. You’re the best father a girl could have and you know you can’t get on without me, so don’t talk nonsense.

Morgan allowed himself to be persuaded, particularly in the matter of luck. No one is more superstitious than a sailor, and the crew firmly believed that Kate was their lucky charm. The one voyage she had missed had ended in disaster.

You’re a good daughter to me, Kate, said Morgan, adding with a shrug and a grin, You’re growing up wild as a catamount and God knows what will become of you, but you are a good daughter.

He clapped her on the shoulder again and went off to take over the helm to steer the ship into port. Kate gave a sigh of relief as she neatly folded up the silk and stowed it.

Come here, Katydid, Olaf called, using his pet name for her. Come look at this.

Grateful for the distraction, Kate joined her friend at the rail. The sights of Westfirth were new to her.

Morgan’s usual smuggling runs took him to remote and isolated coves along the coastlines of Rosia and Freya. He had recently been in contact with a notorious Westfirth gang who didn’t like the bother of having to travel long distances to obtain their contraband. They had made all the arrangements for delivery of their cargo, including making certain the right revenue agent was on hand to clear them and telling them which dockyards the police didn’t bother to patrol.

Kate was enthralled by the huge gun emplacement guarding the harbor. She had not imagined there could be that many cannons in the world, and she kept staring at them until Olaf nudged her elbow and pointed to the top of the enormous cliff that towered high above the coastal city of Westfirth. Kate craned her neck to see.

Oh, Olaf, those are dragons! she said breathlessly, awed.

All her life she had heard of dragons, but she never had seen any before now, for there were no dragons in her native Freya. And here were three of the magnificent creatures, flying in wide circles above the cliff.

Those aren’t just any dragons, said Olaf. Those are members of the famed Dragon Brigade. The Brigade has its headquarters atop that cliff, known as the Bastion. Those would be young recruits, I’m guessing. Probably in training.

You’re talkin’ heresy, Olaf! said one of the sailors, scowling. Don’t pay heed to him, Kate. Dragons are evil creatures. Foul serpents. Minions of the devil. That’s why they do the bidding of the damn Rosians.

Kate looked questioningly at Olaf and saw him roll his eyes. She turned her gaze back to the dragons—huge, monstrous beasts—yet so graceful in flight. The sunlight glittered on their scales and shimmered through the membrane of their wings.

No creature that beautiful could be evil, Kate said softly. Look, Olaf! There’s a man riding on the back of a dragon!

He’ll be one of the officers, said Olaf.

They watched as a fourth dragon flew into the air with the officer riding on the back, seated just below the neck, atop the massive shoulders and ahead of the flashing wings.

The riders sit in specially designed saddles that keep them strapped in, even when the dragon flips over in midair, said Olaf. "Saw it myself at the Battle of Daenar when I was a gunnery crafter. Let me see, that must have been nigh on forty years ago.

We were holed up in this fortress when the Dragon Brigade attacked us. It was a terrible sight, Katydid, to see the beasts fly so close their wings sliced through the clouds and you felt the heat of their fiery breath. Worse yet to watch their magical fire burn clean through all our magic constructs, see walls start to crumble. Terrible, but, as you say, beautiful.

Olaf fell silent, watching the dragons, leaning on the rail, his chin resting on his hand. He was a small man, about five foot, with large shoulders and arms and undersized legs. He had worked for a blacksmith when he was a boy, and his face and hands were black from the soot that was ingrained in his skin. He had grizzled hair and a gap-toothed smile. He didn’t know his age, but had a vague idea that he was somewhere above sixty.

He had been a ship’s crafter employed by the Fitzmaurice Shipping Company until it had gone down in financial ruin. Then he’d joined Morgan’s crew, and he’d known Kate since she was born. Most of what Kate knew about her family—or at least the truth of what she knew—came from Olaf. He was fond of her father, but free to admit that Morgan tended to shave the truth a bit on occasion.

How do you suppose people climb to the top of the cliff? Kate asked.

Olaf gave her a sharp glance, which she met with a look of wide-eyed innocence.

Those who have permission to be in the Bastion fly on the backs of their dragons, said Olaf. The area is restricted. They don’t encourage visitors.

Pooh, there must be another way to reach it besides dragons, said Kate, taking a practical view of the matter. What if someone was hurt or they needed to send an urgent message to the dragons? I know you know, Olaf, she added in wheedling tones. You know everything.

I know you could charm a wyvern with those brown eyes, Olaf said, pretending to grumble. "That big building is the Old Fort. The building surrounded by the wall with the guard towers near the gun emplacements. The admiral of the Western Fleet lives there now and I’ve heard tell that there’s a walking path that leads from his garden to the Bastion."

Kate heard him lay emphasis on the words wall and guard towers, but dismissed that as unimportant. She differed from her father, who tended to be easygoing and take life as it came. Kate was stubborn, like her mother. When Rose Gascoyne had decided to do something, she had let nothing stand in her way.

The buyers for the contraband would arrive at midnight. Kate had to be back on board ship then, to ensure her father kept money enough to pay the crew and make the repairs the ship needed for the voyage home. Otherwise the profits would end up on the baccarat table. But for now, she had the afternoon and evening free.

The Barwich Rose slowed as a harbor tug took over the final maneuvering. The tug pushed the merchant ship into a berth barely larger than the ship itself. As soon as it was secured to the dock, the harbor tug sailed off to the next ship, and Kate was down the gangplank before it touched the dock, making the leap from the plank to the shore with ease.

She heard her father calling and Olaf yelling that Westfirth was a wicked place and she should stay on board ship. Ignoring both of them, she made her way among the barrels and crates and boxes stacked on the wharf, and ran into a street lined with warehouses, markets, and taverns.

The street was named Canal Street, and although Kate had never been to Westfirth, she knew that almost every city had a Canal Street that ran along the ship channel. Since they had seen the Bastion while sailing down the canal, she figured she had only to follow Canal Street and it would lead her to back to the Bastion. She didn’t want to waste time getting lost, however, and so she stopped to ask for directions.

She spoke fluent Rosian, and although the fishmonger appeared to wonder why a ship’s boy needed to know how to get to the Old Fort, he told her to just keep following Canal. When it ended, she would be there.

She was so eager to reach her destination that she ran past the shops and market stalls and street vendors that would have otherwise drawn her interest. Canal Street ended at the Old Fort, and Kate stood on the sidewalk, gaping.

As Olaf had pointed out to her, the Old Fort was surrounded by a wall with guard towers. Although known as the Old Fort, the beautiful building resembled a palace more than a fortress, and was now, as Olaf had told her, the living quarters and offices of the admiral of the Western Fleet.

Kate was impressed. She considered the manor house on her family’s estate—Barwich Manor, where she had lived when she was little, until the bank took it—to be more beautiful, but she allowed that this building would come in second. Looking at it now, she was somewhat daunted by the prospect of trying to sneak inside. The women emerging from the carriages or walking about the streets outside the front gate were elegantly dressed, wearing elaborate hats. The men were, for the most part, officers in the Rosian navy, splendid in their uniforms. Kate wasn’t even wearing shoes.

She pilfered an apple from a vendor, and ate it while she walked around the wall, searching for a solution to her problem. She found it in the form of a large oak tree growing near the wall. The lowest branches were far above her head, but she had been climbing the ship’s rigging since she was little, and she dug her bare feet into the bark and shinnied up the trunk with ease. After crawling along a large branch that extended over the wall, she dropped down into the garden.

She was annoyed to find that the garden was occupied; a great many rich people were promenading up and down the paths. Kate was forced to hide in the shadows of trees and hedges as she circled about the ornamental fish ponds, always keeping her goal—the Bastion at the top of the cliff—in sight.

She had no trouble locating the stairs that led up the side of the cliff. The steps had been cut into the stone in a zigzag pattern and were both decorative and functional. Climbing stairs that went back and forth, ascending gradually, would be far easier than climbing straight up.

Kate ran up the hundreds of flagstones with the strength and energy of her twelve years, fueled by her eagerness to obtain a close-up view of the dragons. Arriving at the top, she stopped to catch her breath, gaze, and marvel.

The Bastion was built in a circle; halls and rooms radiated from an enormous courtyard made of stone. A mosaic of glittering tile in the center of the courtyard portrayed a blue-green dragon in flight, wings extended, against the background of a red and golden sun.

Some of the buildings must be barracks for the humans, Kate guessed, for she could see men walking about on business or pausing to talk and observe the maneuvers being performed by the dragons.

Having located the enemy—those humans who might catch her—Kate crouched behind a tree. From here, she was free to admire the dragons, one of whom was standing at the edge of the cliff, poised to take flight along with two of his fellows.

The three dragons were being observed by an officer and another dragon. The officer would gesture to the three, making comments to the observing dragon, who either nodded in agreement or answered the officer. Kate couldn’t hear what they were saying; the wind was far too strong, for atop the cliff, it blew continuously. But she was enthralled to know that dragons could talk with humans. Wyverns hitched to carriages pulled them through the air, but they couldn’t talk; not that wyverns would have much anyone would care to hear, being stupid, nasty beasts. Griffins—which carried individual riders and were half eagle, half lion—could talk, according to her father. They mostly chose not to, thinking themselves above having to communicate with humans. Kate would have given her knucklebones, her most precious possession, to be able to talk to a dragon.

The beasts had looked small as birds from down below. Viewed up close, they were enormous. She could not fathom the height of the dragons, but she guessed that if the dragons were standing alongside the cathedral of Saint Agnes, their heads would be about level with the vaulted roof.

Their shimmering scales shifted colors in the sunlight, sometimes looking blue and sometimes green. Their heads, with elongated snouts and sharp fangs, were mounted on long, graceful necks. The spiky mane started at the top of the head and ran the length of the neck, ending right at the shoulders, leaving a gap for the saddle, then extending down the back to the tip of the tail.

One dragon, Kate noticed, had a twisted spike on top of his head, an oddity, for all the rest of the spikes on his mane were smooth, as were the spikes on the other dragons.

Kate chose him for her favorite, naming him Twist, and waited impatiently to see him fly. She watched in awe as the dragons took flight, one after another, spreading their wings, pushing off with their powerful legs, and sailing effortlessly off the cliff.

She made herself comfortable, sitting down on the ground, hugging her knees to her chin, to watch the dragons dip and roll and turn somersaults in the air. She thought they were playing the way she played in the rigging, until she saw the officer closely observing them and making notes in a book he carried. The dragon standing at his side would sometimes bellow at the three in the same sort of tone Olaf used when reprimanding one of the crew. Kate concluded that Olaf had been right; the three dragons, including Twist, must be in training.

After about an hour of maneuvers, the officer said something to his companion dragon, who gave a hooting, booming call. The dragon recruits started to spiral downward. Kate realized they were going to land. The next moment she saw, with a thrill, that they were going to land in the courtyard with the mosaic, which was only a few yards from her.

She held her breath when the lead dragon landed, hitting the ground with its tail and back legs first, then dropping down on its front legs. The dragon folded his wings, shook its mane, and then walked off, as the officer nodded in approval and pointed toward the barracks.

The second dragon followed the first, landing with ease, and got a nod from the officer. The dragon standing with the officer began hooting again. Kate was excited to watch Twist land. She looked up into the sky, but was disappointed not to see him. Wondering where he was, she left her tree and ventured out into the open. She searched the skies, not watching where she was going, and not realizing she had strayed out into the courtyard. She also did not notice that the wind had shifted.

The dragon who had been hooting suddenly gave a deafening shriek. The officer whipped around, dropping his book and shouting a warning as he ran toward her. Kate turned to see Twist swooping down on top of her, preparing to land right where she was standing.

At the last moment the dragon saw her and frantically beat his wings to gain altitude. The officer was close to her, ordering her to run. Kate bolted, tripped on a loose flagstone, and fell flat on her face. The officer flung himself on top of her and the dragon soared past them, coming so close that Kate felt a blast of air, followed by a jarring thud. She couldn’t see, for her face was plastered against the stone, but she knew by the sounds that the dragon must have crashed into the ground.

The officer picked himself up and turned to help Kate.

Are you all right? he asked, speaking Rosian.

Kate nodded a little shakily. She was scraped and cut and bruised and had the wind knocked out of her, but was otherwise unharmed.

She managed to squeeze out, Yes, sir, as she scrambled to her feet. She was far more worried about the dragon than she was about herself, and she tried to peer around the officer to see what had become of him.

The dragon had managed to avoid smashing into them, but he had been unable to stop his forward momentum. She gathered, by the shaking of the ground and the enormous dust cloud, that he had come down in a heap, tumbling and rolling.

What happened to Twist, sir? Kate asked, trying to see.

Twist? the officer asked, puzzled.

The dragon. Is he all right?

The dust settled and Kate saw Twist lift his head and start to move, albeit a little unsteadily. The dragon who had been hooting at him hastened over, along with his two comrades and some of the men who had been in the barracks, to check on him. The officer turned from Kate to shout to the hooting dragon.

Lady Cam, how is Dalgren?

Before Lady Cam could reply, the dragon himself responded, A few bumps, Lieutenant. Nothing broken. I remembered my lesson, sir, he added with faint pride. Tuck in the wings, go limp, and roll.

Well done, Dalgren, said the officer. Don’t move until Lady Cam has examined you.

Reassured that Twist was uninjured, Kate shifted her gaze to the man who stood in front of her. He was perhaps in his mid-twenties. He had removed the heavy uniform coat in the heat and was in his shirtsleeves, uniform trousers, and high, black riding boots. He wore his blondish brown hair tied back from his face and was regarding her sternly.

It was my fault, sir! Kate said breathlessly. I was trying to see Twist land and I didn’t realize the wind had changed direction. He won’t get into trouble, will he?

The officer glanced over his shoulder, saw the dragon staggering to his feet, watched over by Lady Cam, and looked back at Kate. Her question seemed to have gained his favor, because the stern expression relaxed.

I’m glad you’re thinking of the dragon, he said drily. He crossed his arms over his chest. You realize you could have been killed, son. The Bastion is a dangerous place, which is why access is restricted to the dragons and their riders. You’ve broken the law, young man. I could have you arrested.

Kate had been thinking fast and she had a lie ready. She would whimper, adding a few tears, that she was lost and had wandered up here by accident. She would have lied to her father and not thought twice, but she found she couldn’t lie to this man, who was looking down at her with cool, appraising eyes. The realization suddenly came to her that he, a fine gentleman, had been prepared to sacrifice his life to save hers.

Her father never put much stock in a man’s honor, saying that only the wealthy could afford to indulge in it.

Kate learned a lesson in that moment. Her father was wrong. This man had been honorable enough to be willing to die to save her, and she was bound, in honor, to repay him. She had nothing to give in return except the truth.

Hanging her head, she lowered her eyes.

I … I wanted to see the dragons, sir.

He said nothing, and Kate was frightened. Peeping up, she saw his lips twitch.

I see, he said finally. What’s your name, son?

I’m a girl. My name is Katherine Gascoyne-Fitzmaurice, she said and, remembering her lessons from her mother, she gave a bobbing, awkward curtsy.

The man’s smile broadened. A girl with a name that’s bigger than she is.

They call me Kate, sir.

Very well, Kate. You’re Freyan by your accent. Not a spy, are you?

Oh, no, sir! Kate assured him. "My father is a merchant seaman, Captain Morgan Fitzmaurice. He has his own vessel, the Barwich Rose. We’re in port making a delivery."

You are a sailor, said the officer. That’s how you knew about the shift in the wind. I am Lieutenant Stephano de Guichen of the Dragon Brigade.

Pleased to meet you, sir, said Kate with another curtsy. Thank you for saving my life. You didn’t have to do that.

Well, of course I did, said Lieutenant de Guichen, laughing. Otherwise you would have left a big, ugly splotch of blood all over our nice clean flagstones.

He grinned at her, and Kate, now perfectly at ease, grinned back.

Since you’re not a Freyan spy and you’ve come all this way, would you like to meet Dalgren? Lieutenant de Guichen added. I’m sure he’s worried about you.

Oh, yes, sir! said Kate. I’d like to apologize.

You speak Rosian well, said Lieutenant de Guichen, as they walked toward Dalgren, who had been watching them all this time.

My father does business with people from all over, said Kate and hurriedly changed the subject. What is that picture?

She pointed to the mosaic that portrayed the dragon.

The emblem of the Dragon Brigade. Dragons and humans working together, living together, fighting together for our country.

Kate sighed with longing. Would someone have to be Rosian to join the Dragon Brigade?

I’m afraid so, yes, said Lieutenant de Guichen. Lord Dalgren is a young dragon, perhaps about eighteen in human years. He is one of our new recruits, hoping to join the Brigade.

"Lord Dalgren?" Kate questioned.

Dragons and men must be of gentle birth to be officers in the Brigade.

Kate supposed she was of gentle birth, although she never concerned herself much about her station in life. Her mother had been the daughter of a viscount. Upon his untimely death, she had inherited two things: his debts and Barwich Manor. Kate remembered her mother’s sorrow over her comedown in the world. The servants had called her mother my lady until they had left because they hadn’t been paid.

Kate was content to be a smuggler’s daughter, with only one regret: that her mother and father had lost Barwich Manor, her dearly beloved home.

Her one dream in life was to buy it back. She now added another dream to that: to join the Dragon Brigade. Why not? she reasoned. Both were equally unattainable.

Dalgren stood stiffly to attention as they approached. Kate noticed that he was favoring a back leg, trying not to put his weight on it, and she felt horrible.

At ease, Lord Dalgren, said Lieutenant de Guichen. May I introduce Katherine Gascoyne-Fitzmaurice, the young woman you almost flattened. You will be glad to know that although shaken up, she was not injured.

I am so sorry, mistress, said Dalgren, lowering his head to speak to her. His voice was gravelly, as though he were talking around boulders in his throat, but she was thrilled to find that she could understand him. I did not see you standing there.

It was all my fault, Your Lordship, said Kate. I wanted to watch you land and I didn’t realize the wind had shifted—

They were interrupted by someone shouting from the barracks. Stephano! Officers meeting!

I have to go, said the lieutenant. "Lord Dalgren will show you the way out of the Bastion. A pleasure meeting you, Mistress Katherine. Please, don’t come again."

He grinned and she grinned back; then he walked off. He had taken only a few steps when he stopped and turned back. Fight for your dreams, Kate! Never sound retreat!

He waved, then hurried back to the barracks on the run, motioning for Lady Cam to join him.

I know the way out, Your Lordship, Kate told Dalgren, embarrassed. Your leg is hurt. You don’t have to show me.

But I’d like to, said Dalgren. He ducked his head to say in a low voice, Otherwise I have to return to the barracks and endure Lady Cam’s reprimands.

They walked together, the dragon crouching down and moving at a crawl in order not to outdistance her. Kate was surprised to find herself talking to a dragon as easily as she could talk to Olaf.

Dalgren explained what he had been doing, practicing maneuvers used in attacking ships and fortresses. Kate listened, fascinated.

She expected him to leave when they reached the wall, but Dalgren flattened down on his belly and laid his head on the ground, to bring himself almost to eye level with Kate. They continued talking until a bugle call caused Dalgren to raise his head.

That’s the evening mess call. I have to go. You should leave, too, Kate, before it gets dark.

Good-bye, Dalgren, said Kate. This has been the best day of my life. I wish we could meet again.

I’m afraid that’s not likely, said Dalgren regretfully. If you ever came back here, the lieutenant would have no choice but report you to the authorities. We could write letters.

Can dragons write? Kate asked, awed, trying to picture Dalgren holding a pen in an enormous claw.

Well, no. Dalgren rumbled deep in his throat, which Kate took for laughter. Humans do the writing for us.

The problem is that I don’t have an address, said Kate. We live on our ship and we never stay in one place very long and we don’t generally know where we’re going.

Sounds like a wonderful life, said Dalgren, adding in rueful tones, "I always know where I’m going. I have no say in the matter."

Kate thought he was just being kind, and didn’t respond. She was busy thinking.

We do stop in one place a few times a year, she said. The Abbey of Saint Agnes. The nuns are kind to us and whenever we are in Rosia, Father stops to exchange news and visit with them. They’d hold the letters for me.

What a good idea! I’ll write to you care of the Abbey of Saint Agnes, said Dalgren. And you must write me back. I’ll send you my address.

She waved to Dalgren and then hurried down the path, reliving over and over every glorious moment of this wonderful day. Not paying attention, she ended up getting lost in the admiral’s garden and was nearly caught by one of the gardeners, who chased her until she reached the oak tree, and then stood beneath it shaking his fist at her. Kate paid attention to where she was going after that.

She longed to tell Olaf about her adventure. But although he was her friend, he was also Morgan’s friend and might tell on her. Her father would be alarmed over the fact that not only had she almost been killed, she could have ended up in the hands of the police just when he was about to turn over smuggled contraband. Her father would talk again about sending her off to school, and this time he might actually go through with it. Kate decided to keep her adventure secret.

Late that night, the customers arrived to collect their goods. They were satisfied, and not only paid, but wanted to order more. Kate managed to wheedle the money she required out of her father, and he took the rest and went to the gambling dens.

After he had gone, Kate sneaked into her father’s cabin. She cut a blank page from the ship’s logbook, sat down at her father’s desk, opened the ink bottle, dipped her pen, and began to write. When she was finished, she let the ink dry, then carried the paper with her to the storage closet that Olaf had transformed into a room of her own. Kate lay down on the bed to read what she had written. Folding the paper, she tucked it under the pillow and thought over all that had happened until she fell asleep.

Fight for your dreams. Never sound retreat.

Book 1

ONE

Sir Henry Wallace sat at a table in the small cabin aboard the Freyan ship HMS Valor, dunking a ship’s biscuit in his coffee in an effort to render it edible and reading the week-old newspaper.

Ineffable twaddle, said Sir Henry, scowling. He motioned with his egg spoon to an illustration and read aloud the accompanying tale. ‘The gallant Prince Tom, heedless of the many grievous wounds he had suffered in the course of the fearsome battle, raised his bloody sword, shouting, If we are to die today, gentlemen, let history say we died heroes!’ Pah!

Sir Henry tossed aside the newspaper with contempt.

Your Lordship is referring to the latest exploits of the young gentleman known in the press by the somewhat romantic appellation of ‘Prince Tom,’ said Mr. Sloan. I have not read the stories myself, my lord, but I understand they have garnered a great deal of interest among the populace, such that the newspaper has trebled its circulation since the series began.

Sir Henry snorted and, after tapping the crown of the soft-boiled egg with his spoon, removed the shell and began to eat the yolk. At that moment the ship heeled, as a gust of wind hit it, forcing him to grab hold of the eggcup as it slid across the table. He looked up, frowning at Mr. Sloan, who had rescued the coffee.

I haven’t been on deck yet this morning, said Henry. Is there a storm brewing?

Wizard storm, my lord, said Mr. Sloan. Blowing in from the west.

Henry heard a distant rumble of thunder. At least those storms are not as frequent or as bad as they used to be when the Bottom Dwellers were spewing forth their foul contramagic.

God be praised, my lord, said Mr. Sloan.

A dreadful war that left its mark on us all, said Henry, falling into a reflective mood as he drank his coffee. I think about it every time there is a storm. We wronged those poor devils, sinking their island and dooming them to the cruel fate of living in relative darkness at the bottom of the world. Small wonder that even after hundreds of years, they sought their revenge on us.

I confess I find it hard to feel much sympathy for them, my lord, said Mr. Sloan. Especially given the terrible fate they intended to inflict on our people. Thank God you and Father Jacob and the others were able to stop them.

I will never forget that awful night, said Henry. I thought we had failed and all I could do was wait for the end. Alan, bleeding to death…

He fell silent a moment, remembering the horror, the pain of his wounds. He had spent months convalescing and months beyond that battling the nightmarish memories. Not wanting to give them new life, he shook them off and managed a smile. And there you were to save us, Mr. Sloan, your face ‘radiating glory’ as the Scriptures say of the angels.

You were delirious at the time, my lord, said Mr. Sloan with a faint smile.

I was not, said Henry. You saved our lives, Mr. Sloan, and I do not forget that. As for the Bottom Dwellers, we couldn’t let them continue sacrificing people in their foul blood magic rituals and knocking down our buildings with their contramagic.

Indeed not, my lord, said Mr. Sloan.

Even if the war did bankrupt us, Henry added somberly. Fortunately the crystals will help ease that burden.

The ship rocked again, causing Mr. Sloan to stagger into a bulkhead.

Please sit down! Henry said. You stand there hunched like a stork and being tossed about. I cannot function if you are laid up with a cracked skull.

Mr. Sloan sighed and reluctantly seated himself opposite Sir Henry on the bed, a shocking liberty that was harrowing to the soul of Mr. Sloan, who normally would have been standing or respectfully seated in a chair as he attended to his employer, but for the sad fact that the cabin was small with a low ceiling. Being above average height, Mr. Sloan was forced to stand with his head, back, and shoulders bent at an uncomfortable angle.

HMS Valor was a massive warship, with three masts, eight lift tanks, four balloons, and six airscrews. Her two full gun decks carried twenty twenty-four-pound cannons, thirty eighteen-pound cannons, and twenty nine-pound cannons, as well as thirty swivel guns on the main deck. She was a ship designed for war, not for the comfort of those who sailed her.

Having finished his egg, Henry left the past to return to the present. If all these fanciful stories about Prince Tom did was to increase the circulation of this rag, I would not mind. But these stories are doing considerable harm, not the least of which is forcing you to sit on a bed with your chin on your knees.

Mr. Sloan was understandably mystified. I am sorry, my lord, but I fail to see the connection between the prince and the bed.

The reason we are on board Admiral Baker’s ship is directly related to this so-called Prince Tom, said Sir Henry. "Her Majesty the queen complained to me that her own son, the real crown prince, comes off badly by comparison to the pretender. She ordered me to take His Royal Highness on this voyage in order to show the populace a more heroic aspect to his nature. Thus here we are: I have to play nursemaid to HRH while he is on board the flagship, and we find ourselves in these cramped quarters instead of our usual more commodious accommodations aboard the Terrapin."

The ship heeled, this time in a different direction. The thunder grew louder and the room darkened as clouds rolled across the sky, blotting out the sun.

I must confess I wondered why His Highness was traveling with us, my lord, said Mr. Sloan, deftly whisking away the empty eggcup and pouring more coffee. Henry kept a firm hold on the coffee cup. I am sorry to say His Highness does not appear to be enjoying the voyage.

Poor Jonathan hates sailing the Breath, said Henry. He was sick as a dog the first two days out. He’s being a damn fine sport about it though. He knows what his mother is like when she fusses and fumes. Easier to give way to her fancies, though I’m sure he’d much rather be back home in his library with his books. He’s found a new obsession: King James the First. Says he’s discovered some old letters or something about the murder of King Oswald that reveal James in an entirely new light.

Mr. Sloan shook his head. A match to gunpowder, my lord.

The whole damn powder keg could blow up in our faces, said Henry. This blasted Prince Tom craze put the idea into Jonathan’s head. I warned His Highness to drop the matter, but Jonathan gave me that professorial look of his and said history had maligned his cousin and that it was his duty as a historian to seek the truth. Once HRH has made up his mind to proceed, nothing will budge him. He’s like his mother in that regard.

Perhaps Master Yates might be of assistance in the matter, sir, suggested Mr. Sloan. Simon could offer his help in the research.

By God, there’s a thought! said Henry, wiping his lips with his napkin. Simon could stop His Highness from going off on one of his tangents or, at the very least, keep whatever Jonathan discovers out of the press. I can see the headlines now: ‘The Crown Prince of Freya Proves He Has No Claim to Throne.’

Let us hope it will not come to that, my lord, said Mr. Sloan.

We will put our faith in Simon, as always. He did not let me down in the matter of the crystals. He has discovered the formula and knows how to produce them. He only needs access to the Braffan refineries. Once the Braffans grant us that, he is ready to launch into production. Soon the Tears of God will be powering our ships. The navies of other nations—including Rosia—will have to buy the crystals from us, and we will charge them dearly!

Henry drank his coffee. Speaking of Braffa and the negotiations, I suppose we had better deal with these dispatches. How old are they? He eyed the pile of letters and newspapers with a gloomy air.

Some were delayed more than a fortnight, I fear, my lord, said Mr. Sloan. The mail packet only just caught up with us.

One would think we were living back in the Dark Times, said Henry irritably.

Sadly true, my lord, said Mr. Sloan. I have placed those I deemed most urgent on top.

He held out a small packet of letters that smelled faintly of lavender. I thought you would like to read these from your lady wife in private.

Sir Henry Wallace, spymaster, diplomat, assassin, trusted advisor to the queen, member of the Privy Council, and long considered by many to be the most dangerous man in the world, smiled as he took his wife’s letters and thrust them into an inner pocket.

He then perused the dispatches. His smile changed to a grimace as he read the first, which was from an agent known simply as Wickham living in Stenvillir, the capital of Guundar.

Henry slammed down the coffee cup, spilling the liquid. Mr. Sloan reacted swiftly, jumping off the bed to mop up the coffee before the small flood reached the remaining dispatches.

The Guundarans are moving on Morsteget! Sir Henry exclaimed, waving the dispatch. According to Wickham, their parliament passed a resolution proclaiming Guundar’s right to the island and voting to establish a naval base there. Fourteen ships set sail for Morsteget weeks ago and I am just now learning about it! These delays in receiving mail have to end, Mr. Sloan. I am seriously considering employing my own griffin riders.

The expense, my lord—

Hang the expense! Henry said savagely. Jumping to his feet, he promptly cracked his head on the low ceiling. Ouch! Bloody hell! No, don’t fuss. I am all right, Mr. Sloan. The devil of it is that we cannot stop Guundar from annexing Morsteget and King Ullr knows it.

As bad as that, my lord?

Oh, we will make a fine show of being outraged, said Henry, seething. The House of Nobles will pass a resolution in parliament, Her Majesty will send a strongly worded protest, and we will boycott Guundaran wine, which is so sweet no one drinks it anyway. But that will be the extent of our fury.

Henry resumed his seat, rubbing his sore head. Lightning illuminated the cabin in the bright purple glow that was the hallmark of the wizard storm: the clash of magic and contramagic. The thunderclap was some time in coming; Henry judged that the storm was going to miss them, probably passing to the north.

At least I can use this move by King Ullr to impress upon the Braffan council that Guundar is a dangerous ally. He has gobbled up this valuable island and has his eye on the Braffa homeland, Henry said. I wonder if those damn Guundaran ships are still skulking about the coastline.

He sifted through the pile of documents, picked up another dispatch, this one from his agent in Braffa, and swiftly read through it. The two Guundar ships remain in port in the Braffan capital. The Rosian ships have departed. Not surprising. King Renaud is planning to turn his attention to the pirates in the Aligoes. And speaking of the Aligoes, make a note that I need to speak to Alan about finding a privateer to take his place, since he has quit the trade and become respectable.

Mr. Sloan made the notation with a smile. After years serving his country as a privateer, Captain Northrop had finally been granted his dearest wish: a commission in the Royal Navy.

But what to do about Guundar? Henry muttered, returning to his original problem. I made a mistake advising the queen to request King Ullr’s help in freeing the Braffan refineries from the Bottom Dwellers. We have given that minor despot delusions of grandeur.

You had no choice, my lord, said Mr. Sloan in soothing tones. You could not allow the Bottom Dwellers to continue to hold those refineries and after the war, neither the Freyan forces nor those of the Rosians were strong enough to oust them.

You are right, of course, Mr. Sloan, said Henry. Thank God for Simon and the crystals. Without him Freya would be in dire straits.

He sifted through the dispatches. I suppose we must let King Ullr have his little island, at least for the time being. Our people will grouse, but once we have this treaty with Braffa and we put the crystals into production, money will flow into the royal coffers, our economy will improve, and our people will forget about Guundar and continue to waste their time reading about the fictional exploits of Prince Tom.

Might I play devil’s advocate, my lord? Mr. Sloan asked.

One of the many reasons you are in my employ, Mr. Sloan. Please, do your damnedest.

Mr. Sloan smiled. If we make a secret treaty with Braffa to produce the crystals, won’t we be breaking the Braffan Neutrality Pact?

Not so much a break as a hairline fracture, Mr. Sloan, said Henry. The other signatories won’t like it, but if we keep the agreement secret until the crystals are ready to come to market, it will be too late for them to protest.

The two continued to work their way through the dispatches and letters. Henry longed to read the letters from his wife, to hear about young Henry and his recent exploits, but duty called and he forced himself to concentrate on official business. Mr. Sloan handed him a letter from his rival spymaster, the Countess de Marjolaine of Rosia, ostensibly written to the gamekeeper on her estate. One of Henry’s agents in Rosia had intercepted the letter, and Henry was trying to figure out if the missive was in fact to her gamekeeper and did in fact refer to poachers or if it was a message of a more sinister nature to someone with the code name Gamekeeper.

Henry had long suspected the Rosians of supporting the Marchioness of Cavanaugh in her ridiculous attempts to make her son—the Prince Tom of whom the newspapers were so enamored—king of Freya. King Renaud of Rosia had said publicly that Rosia had no business meddling in Freyan affairs, but Henry had discovered that the Rosians were privately funding the prince’s cause, hoping to destabilize the Freyan monarchy.

Henry was interrupted in his code-breaking by a stentorian bellow from the deck above. Henry raised his head.

Was that Randolph shouting for me? What the devil—

He could hear drums beating to quarters, feet pounding on the deck above, men running to their stations. The next moment someone was frantically pounding on the door. Mr. Sloan opened the door to find a breathless midshipman.

The admiral’s compliments, my lord; you’re wanted on deck.

Henry and Mr. Sloan exchanged alarmed glances. Admiral Baker was known by the men who served under him as Old Doom and Gloom for his pessimistic outlook on life. He also was known to keep a cool head in a crisis.

Randolph would not bellow without cause. This does not bode well, said Henry.

Mr. Sloan assisted Henry with his coat. Henry slipped his arms into the tailored, dark blue wool frock coat, which he wore over a blue waistcoat and white shirt. He grabbed his tricorn as he was leaving and firmly clamped it on his head, mindful of the strong wind gusts.

Mr. Sloan followed. The private secretary wore the somber, dark, buttoned-up, high-collared coat preferred by those who observed the conservative beliefs of the Fundamentalists. He then checked to make certain his pistol was loaded. Having served as a marine in the Royal Navy, Franklin Sloan was well aware of the dangers of sailing the